Strong, Like Maka
by Autistic Lance
Summary: I decided maybe it might be fun to write something about Crona's time spent locked up in the cell, soon after he was captured. (I dunno how to summarize this, eugh.) [Rated T for self-harm.]


**Author's Note: I'm just trying to banish a writer's block and make some vent work, so I decided to write a nice little fic, and since I find Crona to be the most relatable anime character ever for me, I've decided to write something about him. Also, I understand that Crona hardly knows anything about Maka at this point, but after what she had done back when she and Soul thought they were going to take him on, he would think of her as a brave and strong role model right from the get-go.**

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Crona sat against the wall of the cell, his knees pulled up to and tightly hugged against his chest. Why had he been locked up? He had punched Ragnarok and then dealt with him so that Soul and Maka could get past. Sure, he _had_ taken human souls and he _had_ tried to kill a few of the DWMA students, but he didn't know he was doing anything wrong. He only knew he wanted to gain power and strength so he could have an easier time dealing with things. Now he understood his actions were wrong, and he was certain he would have to live with a feeling of guilt because of it for the rest of his life—why couldn't that be considered punishment enough?

But it wasn't quite the fact that he was being held captive that bothered him—it was the nagging loneliness that came along with being trapped in a room by himself. He had spent the whole time so far without the company of Ragnarok, and he almost wished the horrible demon sword would show up. Crona wasn't used to getting lonely, as he was so shy and preferred being alone rather than having any company, but he was fully convinced that he wouldn't be able to deal with this feeling of isolation for very much longer.

It hurt. It hurt. It hurt. _It hurt_. When Maka had shown him kindness, when she had hugged him, when she made it so clear that she loved and accepted him as another human and as a friend, he had finally known what it was like to feel genuinely happy, and even more than that, what it was like to feel genuinely loved. It was the best feeling he had felt in his entire life, but after being locked up, all of his positive emotions entirely faded away. He was back to being depressed and scared of everything, and back to being unconvinced that he could ever be genuinely cared about. He wanted nothing more than to have Maka's arms around him again and make him feel like everything was going to be okay. He wanted nothing more for her to tell him that he was loved, that he was accepted, that his life actually held meaning.

But why would she go out of her way to help him again, when she already had done it once? He was pathetic, weak and insignificant—why would she want to take it upon herself to deal with anything as useless as him anymore? At this point, he couldn't decide what hurt more—the fact that he was entirely blocked off from the one and only person who had ever shown him compassion, or the idea that she didn't truly find him as important as she acted like she had.

_It's not that you don't know how to deal with people, it's just no one ever took the time to deal with you._

He repeated Maka's words over and over in his mind. No—he was certain that she cared about him. Being unable to even talk to her for the time being was torturous. He had just made a new friend, his _first_ friend, and he wasn't able to have any communication with her for the time being. Either he was just being pathetic or whoever was in charge was a master of torture. In response to his own pondering, his mind, for the first time in his life, didn't just default to the usual "you're being your pathetic self" conclusion. Maybe even Maka—strong, brave, tough, and resilient as she was—wouldn't be able to deal with being in the same situation.

And then it occurred to him, as sudden as a flash of lightening in a thunder storm, that he was questioning himself and actually giving answers to the best of his ability. Most of them involved Maka, not only himself, but he was _answering them_. He didn't think a quick "pass" and force himself to not dwell on the questions he passed on. It wasn't making the Hell inside of his head diminish any, but it gave him a small sense of what he was almost sure was satisfaction.

It didn't last for very long, however—it was replaced by the unrelenting loneliness and longing for more interaction with Maka, whether it be social or physical. The loneliness wasn't something he could deal with any longer. Taking pain would be easier.

There was a moment's hesitation while Crona processed what he had just thought. It _would_ be easier to deal with pain—so why not give it a shot? It had been years, after all, so maybe it could be worth it to try again. He rolled up his dress just enough to expose his stomach, along with pale scars of the time he had resorted to self-harm when Medusa had locked him in that dark room as a punishment. He positioned a hand on the right side just below his chest. Was he really going to try this again? Yes, of course—it could make it easier to deal with things.

Without taking another moment to consider whether he really wanted to go through with it, he tore his fingernails down across his stomach, to his left hip. Over and over and over again he did it until he finally had drawn blood, and he just kept going over the wound he had made to make it deeper, going quickly enough for there to actually be a generous amount of blood—for him having the ability he did—to spill. It definitely did hurt, but he didn't yell or cry out or even whimper from it—it was far easier to deal with this pain than the pain of loneliness, and part of him resented it while the other part was pleased by it. If ever the loneliness was overwhelming, self-harm just might be his resort, but then again, this might mean he could finally begin to learn how to deal with people. Not corpses, easy as that seemed it should be, but actual _living_ people.

Once he decided to stop, he pushed his dress back down, and pulled his knees back up to his chest. Now that he had stopped, there was nothing left to preoccupy his mind as the sense of loneliness began creeping back over him. He let out a soft sigh of exasperation and tiredness—perhaps also of frustration and anger, but those weren't emotions he was acquainted with enough to be able to tell for complete sure, and even if they had been, he wasn't sure of his own thoughts at the time. Except two, maybe.

Maybe, one day, he would be able to deal with things everyone else seemed to be able to.

Maybe, one day, he might just be able to be strong, like Maka.

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**Author's Note: Well that was particularly pathetic... But I feel like I needed to write that—vent a little. So I suppose I can consider it acceptable.**


End file.
